


Broken Promises

by Linnet



Series: Rebuttal [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet/pseuds/Linnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This used to be the story involving everybody in the Sherlock BBC canon, but I've discovered that it works better to have the two stories running separately.<br/>This is Lestrade and Mycroft's side of the story of Sherlock's return, Mycroft's disappearance, and the difficulties they all face as time goes on and ever more secrets are revealed that would have been better remaining in the dark.</p><p>Mycroft's in more danger than he ever lets on, even to his closest friend. When events take a turn he could never have predicted, he's forced into doing something that he never thought would cause so much pain.<br/>Lestrade's got a growing number of unsolved murders on his back, never mind the recent death of his wife. Maybe that's what induces his steady realisation that something is happening around him that he has no control over, and that it may be slowly tearing his life apart.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“...and of course, there’s always the possibility that we’ll catch him under an assumed name. He’s probably living abroad, keeping a low profile, sort of thing.” Donovan continued, and Lestrade tried muzzily to make sense of what she was saying. What had they been talking about? Oh yes... the murderer who had vanished without a trace. Unidentified dead body found in a warehouse, quite obvious clues to an incompetent murderer, but the man appeared to have vanished without a trace. A third file to add to the steadily growing pile of solved but unresolved cases.

Working overtime to attempt to find and secure the killers, let alone identify the victims, was slowly draining the life out of him. The past week’s work had been a pure nightmare, and the lack or rest was exhausting him. He hated to say it, but the tedious drawl of Donovan’s incompetently formed theories made him feel, if possible, even sleepier. He grabbed his coffee and took a long drink, before gathering his thoughts.

“Quite possibly, sergeant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to catch up on.” He reflected of the sad truth of the statement as he made his way towards his office. Always there was bloody paperwork to do. As much as he knew he found a guilty pleasure in chasing murderers around London, the huge mountain of documents awaiting his signatures and inputs seemed to dog his heels, and he no longer enjoyed his job as he once had. He supposed it was because he was getting old. If he had been drunk, it would have been a sobering thought.

***

Mycroft sighed and turned away from the screen. The CCTV footage did not make for good viewing, especially since Lestrade had been sorting through paperwork for the last three hours. He had taken it as his duty to made regular checks on the Detective Inspector since his wife had died, and the man did not seem to be making good progress. The mountain of work that he faced may apparently be keeping his turbulent mind occupied, but a man needed rest, and other precious necessities that he was neglecting to supply himself with.

Of course, Mycroft did the exact same thing; sacrificing himself for his work. It was the best thing to be done, but Mycroft was now in two minds about the arrangement. It had served him well in the past, but now he was willing to make allowances, for one man in particular. He would bring that up at their next meeting.

***

“Yes, I know I’ve been working too hard, but no-one else is going to do it. Besides, you do the exact same thing.” Greg grinned and took a long draught of scalding coffee from his mug. They were holed up in a comfortable corner of Lestrade’s favourite coffee shop, taking advantage of a lunch break where for once, neither of them was working overtime. It was a rare occasion, but well worth waiting for.

“That is true unfortunately, though I loath to admit it.” Mycroft’s eyes were bright with amusement, pleased to spending time with the man who he was lucky enough to be able to call his friend.

“Hypocrite.” Shaking his head over his cup, Lestrade couldn’t hide the smile that sprang easily at Mycroft’s mildly offended expression. One eyebrow raised, Greg felt like he was being considered by him, but in good humour.

“I am simply concerned for your wellbeing.” The statement startled a laugh out of the detective, and he tilted his head back slightly to laugh, attracting the attention of the woman at the bar. She looked up, giving an appreciative little smile at the outburst of bright laughter. Mycroft smiled too, happy to have inspired such a positive reaction. Lestrade really did light up when he laughed, his lovely brown eyes full of life and love for the world around him. Mycroft wondered how he did it, seeing what he did every day.

“I worry about you too, interfering busybody that you are.” He said, still chuckling. “Tell you what, we’ll make a deal. I’ll look after myself if you do.”

“Naturally, if you feel the need to make a bargain, then I will agree to it.” He sounded surprised, but it was an act that was all to easy to see through.

“And we need to establish ground rules too.” He pushed further. Mycroft rolled his eyes in response, as if to insinuate that Lestrade was a fool not to know that it was expected.

“Of course. If I may begin, I would suggest that eating three decent meals a day is a requirement.” And the bargaining began.

“Three? Remember these rules apply to you too. How about we start at two and work our way up?”

“That would be a satisfactory compromise.”

“Ok then. Now, Rule two. Get seven hours of decent sleep every night.”

“That may be a little difficult.”

“How about six?”

“Again, I may struggle to meet the requirements.”

The conversation reminded him of haggling in markets in morocco on one his holidays, a long time ago.  “Well it’s not supposed to be easy. Six hours, Mycroft. No more negotiating.” Lestrade tried to suppress the laugh that bubbled easily at the other man’s sour expression, but failed miserably.

“You are very demanding, Gregory. How do you expect me to achieve that and run the country successfully simultaneously? The world doesn’t cease to turn when I sleep, and there are often pressing matters to deal with in the early hours of the morning.”

“Hmm, I bet the world would cease to turn if you stopped working completely Mycroft, but you can manage a few hours. It’s only a quarter of the day.”

“I _know_.” The frustration wasn’t missed, but to his horrified fascination, Lestrade found it endearing. He coughed quickly to hide his embarrassment at the thought.

“Anyway. Rule three. This is one for you, mainly, and I want you to stick to it. I remember what you told me before Mycroft, and it scares me. For God’s sake, try to keep yourself safe, and don’t let anyone get at you.” Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about. Gregory was under no illusions about the dangers his job presented.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, honestly.” He continued, shaking his head, running a hand through his greying hair, echoing again what he said those many months ago.

***

_They've been laughing together over a cup of tea again, enjoying each other’s company. "I don't know what I'd do without you Mycroft." He admits. Mycroft smiles, flattered, but then his lips curve downward as he frowns._

_"You may have to get used to it someday. My job isn't the safest in the world." The lightness in his step is gone, his head is set forward and he stares straight ahead as he speaks. Lestrade doesn’t miss the change in mood, perceptive to Mycroft’s subtle changes in attitude._ _He waits for him to speak, knowing he’s not finished his admission._ _"There are currently three assassins who are willing to do anything to get their hands on the money they have been promised if they can offer news of my demise."He turns and looks straight at him, assuring him of his complete sincerity._

_Lestrade turns his head away from Mycroft’s eyes, unable to hold his piercing blue gaze."Seriously? Jesus. That's a lot."He says almost to himself, but Mycroft answers anyway, knowing it is important that Gregory understands the gravity of the situation._

_"Yes. My life is constantly in danger. You must become accustomed to that fact that one day you may be sat here drinking tea on your own."_

_Lestrade bends his head towards the floor, watching where he’s putting his feet, trying to come to terms with the information. He takes a deep breath before speaking, tilting his head to meet Mycroft’s eyes."Perish the thought." He sounds light-hearted, but Mycroft knows that he’s understood. Lestrade looks nothing short of terrified behind his weak grin, but there’s something else there too; steely determination, resolve, bravery. It is just one of the things that Mycroft admires about him, and just one of the things that makes him so good at his job, too._

_"If only that were possible, Gregory, if only that were possible." He replies, and they continue their walk, turning to other topics of conversation. Neither of them forget that revelation though. Greg knows his Job is dangerous, and so does Mycroft, but before that day he never knew just how influential and important his unlikely friend really was._

***

Mycroft pulled himself out of his reverie. “Really Gregory, you think that I am not careful? I already have an abundance of security measures in place that ensure that my safety is not compromised.” What he wasn’t going to tell him was that he was under the same security precautions, for fear of offending him, or worse, scaring him away. “But I will make a rule for you now. Rule number four: No pointless exercises lacking in common sense which could result in dangerous escapades. In your case, it means no getting drunk and wandering round London witless at midnight. I’m not having you mugged by some petty gang members. You are meant for great things.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, disbelievingly. Mycroft was not often sentimental, and Greg was always a little perturbed when he ‘displayed his affection’, as he so carefully put it. “Touching. You mean you’d rather that I was shot by a hired and well-paid assassin who drives a Rolls Royce?”

“Gregory, this is not a topic about which I wish to joke.” Their gazes met, and there was heavy silence for a minute before Mycroft finally gave in and averted his piercingly blue eyes from the deep, brown ones of the detective. He changed the subject quickly, not wanting to give Lestrade time to revel in the small victory.

“But we have digressed, Gregory. I meant to ask, how do you suggest we regulate and asses each other’s progress? I can hardly appear at your flat every night to check if you’re sleeping, can I?” Lestrade grinned. He wouldn’t object to that, though he couldn’t tell Mycroft. He suspected that he hadn’t yet deduced his sexuality, though he made no attempt to hide it, it simply hadn’t been a subject that came up in their many conversations.

“More’s the pity.” He joked.  “Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I assume you’ll just find some CCTV tape from somewhere. I’m sure you’ve rigged my house. That electrician who came round last week to fix the boiler had something funny about him.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, mischievously. He was suspected. “Don’t be absurd. Why would I pay someone to pose as an electrician and set up cameras in your flat?”

“Because you care about me.” That playful grin, the pleased twinkle in his eyes... why bother denying it? Lestrade would know he was lying anyway. He had an unnerving knack for reading body language, however carefully Mycroft tried to disguise it.

“Fine, I admit it. It was the plumber.”

He had managed to startle Lestrade, who placed his cup carefully back in his saucer whilst declaring; “I haven’t had a plumber round!”

“Yes you have, although admittedly, you may not remember the incident seeing as you were asleep at the time.” Mycroft conceded, tilting his head sideways briefly in acknowledgement.

Lestrade’s mouth hung open, his disbelief clearly evident, making Mycroft smile at his expression. “You had someone break into my flat and install cameras while I was _sleeping_? Mycroft, some people would think that was perverted.” He bent his head and rested his elbows on the cafe table to run his hands back and forth across his head, messing up his silvery hair.

“Yes. But you know it isn’t. I am simply exercising precautions.” He took a delicate sip of tea and replaced the cup on the table with exaggerated care.

Lestrade looked up, amused, from between his palms. “I’ll never understand you. Anyway, how am I going to check that you’ve not been breaking any rules? I can’t check up with my security network, unlike you.”

Mycroft raised his cup again. “Text me.”

“You can lie via text.”

He paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. “It is possible, though I will endeavour not to do so.” And he took another genteel sip of tea, pulling a face that suggested that it’s quality left a lot to be desired. Lestrade bit his lip to pull back the grin conjured by Mycroft’s inappropriate behaviour, and pulled his face straight to continue his good-humoured scolding.

“That’s not fair! You can cheat, and I can’t! I want your word Mycroft. Never, ever tell me a word of a lie. Promise?”

“It’s a promise. Though I really don’t understand why you can’t just take my work for it.” He sat back on his chair and relaxed, at ease in the relatively rare situation. Lestrade tapped his finger on the table, calling the waitress over with the bill, and leaned forward.

“Because I’d try and cheat my way out of it if I could, and if I know you, so would you.” Mycroft accepted the challenge, leaning forward across the table so that their faces were only an inch apart, and it became a challenge, a game that neither of them was willing to lose.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked, and he replied slowly, with deliberate care. “Understandable. And yet you trust my promises, though you value my honour so lowly?”

Lestrade leaned back, smiling, confident that he could win even before he spoke. “You wouldn’t dare break a promise to me.” He was easily relaxed, assured, and confident in his manner.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Mycroft sighed and cursed himself internally. In any normal situation, he could control the flow of conversation with almost commonplace ease, and yet with Gregory he found that the conversation took unpredictable and interesting turns, despite the regular, friendly nature of the man and his habits. The man in question was already standing to leave, his half finished coffee abandoned in favour if having his phone in his hand as he replied to an apparently urgent text he had just received.

“Mycroft, I have to go.” He was distracted, no longer focused on the man with whom he had been entirely absorbed only a moment before. “There’s been a dead body found in some poor sod’s broom cupboard.” He tucked his phone back in his back pocket and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his long beige coat. “I’ll see you around sometime, ok?”

“I will not delay you from your work. Nevertheless, it goes against what we have just agreed.”

“Hardly. My lunch break only finishes in...” He checked his watch. “Oh. Thirty seconds ago. See, all perfectly legal. Even you can’t dispute that.” He fished out his wallet and counted out the coins that exactly accounted for what he’d had.

“Your watch is early.” Mycroft countered, smiling, but knowing he’d already lost. With Lestrade, work always came first. There were no exceptions, ever.

Lestrade knew it too. “Very funny, Mycroft. I’m so amused. No, I really have to go. Sorry.” He started towards the door.

“There is no need for apology Gregory. I have enjoyed our impromptu meeting.” Mycroft raised his voice slightly to be heard across the greater distance now between them.

Lestrade inclined his head and smiled. “Yeah, me too. Well, see you around.”

“Goodbye, Gregory.”

Lestrade had almost reached the door when he paused, and turned back. “Wait... Mycroft, there aren’t any cameras in my bedroom, are there?” Mycroft suppressed a smile. He wondered how long it would take him to come to that.

“Naturally. There is statistically a considerably higher chance of you being stabbed whilst sleeping than at any other time.” He took a sip of tea and had to carefully bite the edge of the cup to suppress his frustration when Lestrade laughed, shook his head and flashed his deep brown eyes at him. How did he not notice what that did to him?

“You’ve just given me two reasons to have nightmares. Look, I do have _some_ dignity. How am I supposed to get dressed without you seeing me?” Mycroft just smiled, wishing he still had the cup close to his mouth so that he wasn’t biting his tongue in a futile attempt to suppress the mental image. Lestrade took it in good grace, smiling at what he imagined to be Mycroft’s absurd sense of humour. “Ok, that’s not funny. Where is it? Where’s the camera?”

Grateful for the distraction, Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Gregory, you are so irksome. It’s in the frame of your Da Vinci print.”

“Thank you. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, Gregory. I hope to see you again soon.” _And what will you do with camera?_ He wondered, idly. It was a good thing that he hadn’t mentioned the other cameras in the flat. That meant that he was at least willing to let Mycroft keep an eye on him, which he was grateful for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated (but by no means required) and constructive criticisms are always welcome. I'm always open to suggestions on how to improve my work :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has never been one for talking. Neither has Sherlock. It must be something to do with their upbringing.

Mycroft read with interest the few texts that he’d had passed through.

_Want to come out for a drink tonight? – GL_

_Not up to it. Maybe next weekend – JW_

_Have you been to see Sherlock’s headstone again? – GL_

There had been a pause of about twenty minutes before the next one came through.

_I found something he would have liked. I went and left it for him. – JW_

_I’ll pick you up in ten- GL_

Mycroft sighed and dropped his phone in favour of staring at the package on the desk in front of him. It was addressed to Sherlock in John’s neat, cramped, doctor’s handwriting. He made an effort to collect the little packages and letters John left for Sherlock, telling the less trusted of his employees that it was to stop that rain ruining them.

Only Anthea knew it had lot more to do with the unwilling guest in his spare bedroom. Mycroft reached out a slender hand and picked the package off his desk, moving towards the door, where a figure was silhouetted against the bright light of the hallway. He handed the package over, and it was received with distain, until Sherlock read his name inscribed on the front. Then he turned his attention away from his brother and disappeared, taking it with him. Mycroft bent his head and closed his eyes, listening to his younger brother’s footsteps retreating up the stairs.

Sherlock had been annoyed, to say the least, when he had needed to come to Mycroft to ask for help. A year after Mycroft learnt that all his protections had not been enough to save his younger brother, he had finally stopped mourning him, though the guilt and feeling of terrible loss remained.

When Sherlock had returned to him, and asked him for assistance, no less, it had taken all Mycroft’s willpower not to take his brother in his arms as he had done when they were children, to hold him close and offer him comfort. Sherlock Holmes had come to him a broken man. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would not allow him to offer his help if he did not need it, but his little brother had finally swallowed his pride and come home. And this was home. This house had been where they had grown up together.

Mycroft moved across the house, seeking out his favourite room. It could have been called a library, for the walls were lined with hundreds upon thousands of leather-bound volumes. It could have been called a living room, because there were comfortable sofas arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner around a central low table. Mycroft referred to it as the music room. It was where they kept the Grand Piano that had once belonged to a great-grandfather. He took his place on the stool, and lifted the worn wooden cover that rested over the keys, revealing the smooth ivory that was worth more than he cared to know. Instead of thinking, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, raising his hands so that they rested upon the little shaped notes.

And then he began to play. He needed no sheet music to follow, but played from memory, letting his hands dance over the keys where they remembered being placed hundreds of times before, over and over again. The gentle, lilting melody wafted slowly through the house as Mycroft played. Sherlock, lying on the borrowed bed space, recognised the tune and closed his eyes. It was the one Mycroft had learned to play for their mother’s birthday, the performance they had planned for her before it had all gone wrong. Instead, they had played it at her funeral, two days before they should have done. Sherlock picked up his bow and violin and carried them downstairs, gently playing the notes he also had committed to memory. The melodies intertwined, ancient books the only audience to the brother’s recital. Had they recognised it, they would have heard the most heartfelt version of ‘Clair de Lune’ ever played. As it was, the music didn’t even ruffle their pages. It seemed like a kind of loss, the music laid to rest where only the players could hear it.

When it finished, Mycroft nodded to his brother, and stood to lift sheet music out of the stool, where it was stored. When he turned back, Sherlock was gone. He placed the music on the stand, and began to play again, and this time, the music meant little to his younger brother. He didn’t know that Mycroft had played this in front of other people only once before, and he didn’t know that it had been at his own funeral. The hauntingly sad, and then stormy, notes of Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude wandered slowly through the house. The sad notes, the loss of his brother. The harsh ones, his own guilt at having betrayed his last remaining family. When he was finished, Mycroft turned a page, and began a different song, one with no meaning at all.

If it can be said that music has no meaning.

Sherlock didn’t see the tears that were hurriedly wiped away by the dance of waltzing fingers before they could affect the quality of the ivory keys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have the time, I'd recommend listening to the two pieces of music mentioned here. You can find versions on youtube, and I've left links below. I'd just mention too, that they're incredibly moving when heard live.  
> Debussy's Clair de Lune (adapted for Violin and Piano): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKd0VII-l3A  
> Chopin's Raindrop Prelude: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ1S1kY_CI4


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade needs a favor. How can Mycroft refuse?

The phone rang three times before Mycroft picked up. It was customary to wait that long, but he had also been startled into having to interrupt his playing by the sharp ring of the phone he kept in his pocket. 

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mycroft! Thank god.” Lestrade couldn’t disguise the relief in his voice, and didn’t even attempt to. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but I’m assuming I’m not waking you up. Look, it’s John. I think someone’s spiked his drink or something, but he’s completely out of it. I can’t seem to be able to get him to move, let alone get him home. You couldn’t send over one of those famous black cars of yours, could you? I wouldn’t normally ask, but...” He trailed off, struggling desperately for an explanation. Why _had_ he called Mycroft?

Mycroft saved him. “Of course, Gregory. I owe you enough favours after all, and I would be happy to oblige in any situation. I assume John is spouting nonsense? I can hear some kind of caterwauling in the background.”

“Ah, yes.” _For goodness sake_ , Mycroft scolded himself at his reaction. He wanted to celebrate his joy just because could hear the amusement in Lestrade’s voice. He could imagine the smile, the wonderful ways his shaped contours creased with merriment, his eyes shining with happiness. “He’s singing Sherlock a love song.”

“In which case, his drink’s definitely been tampered with. Nobody goes around saying things like that without being pumped full of drugs.” Lestrade’s sudden, startled laugh still cheered him up, even when the true quality was lost through his phone receiver.

“Mycroft, you never cease to surprise me. Dry humour and common slang all in one go.”

“Never say I don’t try.”

“I could never say that. Thanks Mycroft.” Gratitude from the man to whom he owed so much, and so sincerely delivered. It seemed absurd, but he wouldn’t complain.

“It’s a pleasure to be able to help a friend. I trust you haven’t been drinking too heavily, Gregory?” He teased, gently.

Lestrade laughed again, and responded in a mockingly sarcastic tone. “You think I’d call you if I was drunk?”

“Good point.” There was a short pause, and Lestrade sighed.

“How’s your shoulder? Better?” He sounded concerned, always so considerate.

“It’s greatly improved thank you for asking, and for that I am eternally grateful to you.”

“I hardly did much, really. You’d have done the same for me.”

“Maybe. But I didn’t, because you weren’t stupid enough to get yourself into trouble.” There was a short pause where Lestrade coughed, embarrassed, and unsure what to say. “What time does your shift end tomorrow?” Mycroft asked, to save him the trouble of fishing for something appropriate to say in return.

“Supposedly, about five, but it’ll be more likely seven by the time I get away. Why? Do you want coffee?”

“I would like to... talk.” His voice sounded strained, as if he was somehow fighting to keep it under control. Lestrade knew better than to ask. He could guess, anyway. It was three years today that Mycroft had lost his brother, the only remaining member of his family. Lestrade knew he blamed himself, even after his multiple attempts to dissuade him.

“Of course. Normal meeting place?” Mycroft was grateful for his quiet acceptance. There was, he reflected, a reason that this man was the only one who had come close enough for him to call a friend since he was very young. A reason that he was different, something which he demonstrated again and again, every time they met.

“Please. I would appreciate your company.” He had got the slight tremor back under control, and Lestrade was grateful.

“Ok. Well, I’d better go. Goodnight Mycroft. Sleep well.”

“I will endeavour to do so, and wish the same to you. Goodnight, Gregory.” ‘ _And I would sleep so much better with you by my side’_ the treacherous voice in his head whispered, and he dispelled it with a little more zeal than was strictly required. It would not do to think of such things. He would not jeopardise the friendship they both treasured for his selfish wants. Mycroft put away his phone and returned to his paperwork. There was work to be done.

Lestrade hung up, his mood considerably improved by the short conversation.  He tuned to John, who had stopped singing and was staring blindly at the black car pulling up, driven by Anthea. Greg smiled. Mycroft’s people were _fast._

“In you get, John.” He pulled John up, slipping his arm underneath the other man’s shoulders and pulling him backwards towards the vehicle. He struggled as John closed his eyes and relaxed into him, not expecting the man’s dead weight to be quite so difficult to bear. The man had a lot more muscle than he’d given him credit for. He was grateful when a man appeared on the other side and took the doctor from him with apparent ease, slipping his own arm underneath the inspector’s.

He stood back and took a deep breath. “Thanks. Thank...” He stopped. He stared. The man supporting John stared back, grey eyes blazing with an expression which clearly said; _Don’t. Now is not the time._ Lestrade took another step back, and nodded. “Right. Sorry. Oh god...”

“Lestrade, I have nothing to say. Let me take John home. I will explain to you when I can.”

“Right, right. Well.” He shrugged. “Welcome back I guess. Actually, good to see you.” He held out his hand, and Sherlock freed himself partially from his ex-flatmate to take it, and they shook. Sherlock inclined his head in a form of reply.

“It’s been too long.”

Lestrade responded with a low chuckle. “Not too long when we thought it would be forever.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about... before.” Before he could continue, Sherlock interrupted.

“Another time, Detective Inspector. Another time.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I’ll see you again soon, hopefully. It’ll be good to have you back, trashing my crime scenes.” Sherlock gave him what may generously have been called a smile, and then he was gone, carrying John with surprising ease. Lestrade watched him go, shaking his head. Sherlock pulled John into the back seat of the car with an awkward kind of care. Despite the apparent roughness of his manhandling, Lestrade noticed that not a hair on John’s head even brushed the doorframe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been only two days since Lestrade last spoke to Mycroft. There's no sign of Sherlock and he doesn't want to go and check on John, not yet, no matter how worried he is about his friend. He's been busy at work, and he's still not finished all the paperwork when the call comes in.

"Sir? There's been a murder."

"What? Another one?"

"Yes, a stabbing! You'd better come quickly, the victim was _very_ important." Lestrade was already on his feet and out the door, Sally jogging at his heels to keep up. "If the media find out about this we could get torn to shreds. They'll get hold of ideas that will blow the whole thing out of proportion."

"Sally, please, concentrate... wait, what will they say?"

"The British government will collapse without this man."

He berated himself for the involuntary thought that crossed his mind. It couldn't be... He'd have heard about it already, wouldn't he?

"Ok, get me the details as soon as possible. What's the address?"

"Here." She handed him a flimsy scrap of paper with scribbles on it. "I wrote it down."

"Right, thanks. Get Anderson and his team over there. We'll need them."

"I've already passed through that the area's to be cordoned off to a radius of 100m of the house. Is that ok?"

"Not very subtle, but it'll have to do. We can't have members of the public wandering round a crime scene."

She nodded and was gone, leaving him free to jump into his car and start the engine, already formulating a route in his mind. He recognised the address, and that made him uneasy, but he didn't have time to stop and think. His was on a case.

It was only as he pulled around the corner of the street that he gave his instincts a second thought. He did recognise the place. He's been here once before, a long time ago.

_The doorbell rang with a high, wailing sound that irritated his ears. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, out of place. The neighbourhood was far too posh, high class and snooty. Lestrade knew his place, and it was in the gutter. Not that he'd say no to somewhere like this, of course, but he's rather be here on his own accord. As it was, he was here because he didn't appreciate the cold steel that had been pressed into the back of his neck. You couldn't refuse an offer like that._

_The door had been opened by a tall man in an expensive suit and a curious expression. He wasn't attractive, but he was of a reasonably slim stature and not unfit, and his blue eyes were startlingly bright with intelligence, if you looked closely enough._

_"Ah, Detective Inspector. I have been expecting you. Please come in and make yourself at home." He was smooth talking, easily in control of the situation, and Lestrade felt himself obeying before he gave it a second thought._

_"Forgive me my ignorance, but who are you?"_

_"Me? I am of no importance. You were summoned so that we could discuss matters other than our personal lives."_

_"But I don't know why I'm here!"_

_"I was under the impression that I had just informed you of the purpose of this meeting. Do try and keep up, Detective Inspector."_

_"Right. Of course." He'd only been here five minutes, and the man was already making him feel like an underdog._

_"There has been, unfortunately, a rather singular occurrence that is causing one of my staff a considerable amount of distress."_

_"What?"_

_"I believe you have a detective on call who sometimes assists with your more... demanding cases?"_

_"Oh, you mean Sherlock?"_

_"Yes, that would be him."_

_"What's he done this time?" He sounded resigned._

_"That is not the issue at this precise moment in time. I was rather hoping that you would be able to focus on the future. It is in my interests, for reasons previously explained, that I may closely monitor the movements of this elusive man. I rather hoped you would be able to assist me."_

_The detective gave him a disbelieving look. "You want me to spy on Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"I will offer you a considerable amount of money to do so."_

_"Sorry, that's out of the question. However much I could do with the cash, I really can't be doing with the drama. No, sorry."_

_"Ah well, that is rather a shame."_

_"Besides, I don't think you were telling the truth about why you wanted to know about him."_

_The man looked surprised. "You observe more than I give you credit for. You are right, of course, but it wouldn't do to tell you the truth."_

_"Why not?"_

_"I don't know if I can trust you."_

_"You probably can't. I'm feeling pretty vindictive right now to be honest, what with being forced here at gunpoint and all."_

_"Ah."_

_"Yes, and the thing is, I'm rather inclined to tell Sherlock about this little incident. I'm sure he's work out who you are quickly enough, especially when I give him your address." There was silence for a long minute._

_"You dare to blackmail me?"_

_"I can blackmail a nobody just as easily as a posh twat in a suit worth more than my house."_

_They eyed each other for a long time before the man gave a distasteful sigh._

_"Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother."_

_It was the first thing he said which truly astounded the detective. He grinned, bemused. "Ok, you got me. I wasn't expecting that. So, you're Mycroft Holmes?"_

_"I am indeed. Pleased to meet you, Mr Lestrade."_

It had been their first meeting, but not the last, not by a long way. The next time he met Mycroft was after Sherlock's funeral. It had been a dismal affair, but the small conversation had helped brighten the little ebbing flow of pain in his chest. The older Holmes had been surprisingly good company. Much to his astonishment, he had offered to meet again. And so it had progressed, their strange friendship. He had never visited the man's house since, not until now. Standing in front of the large, carefully designed house, he wondered at it's simple, yet effective design. It suited Mycroft down to a 'T', though at the time he would never have realised it. The secret was the complex contrast of the interior.

"Detective Inspector, would you like to see the body?" An eager looking young man had appeared before him, wearing his brand new uniform with a pride Lestrade just about remembered having himself about thirty years ago.

"Yes please. Perhaps you could update me on the situation? I haven't had time to study the documents." The young man swelled with importance, his crisply ironed uniform crinkling at the movement.

"Certainly sir. The victim is a male in his late forties, has been dead for about three hours, discovered by his personal assistant about an hour ago. He appears to have been stabbed once in the chest, which is apparently the cause of death, but so far we've not found the weapon or any clues of a murderer. There's not even signs of a break-in, or any disturbance at all. We've searched the whole house sir - there's not a single thing out of place."

They had reached the front porch, and the young man pushed the door open for him to enter. His head was spinning, the information reeling round the inside of his skull, rebounding with the same echo every time; it can't be Mycroft. He pulled himself together "Right. Name?"

"Mycroft Holmes." At the same time, Lestrade sees the body.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn't think it would affect him this much...

"Are you alright, sir?" The young man who he had learnt was called Andrew had handed him a cup of tea with a worried expression. Lestrade wanted to say that no, he wasn't, but he knew that if he admitted to being close to Mycroft he would be removed from the case, and that was something he couldn't risk. Whichever bastard had done this, he was going to pay for it, and Lestrade was the one who would find them. Had to find them. It was his duty, wasn't it?

He cursed his weaknesses. He saw dead bodies as a matter of course. They never upset him anymore. They were just shells, left behind when the brain activity inside ceased. So why did he feel faint when he saw Mycroft’s? It was just the same as normal, wasn’t it? Except that it wasn’t. Mycroft wasn’t just another dead body. He was a friend. Except that now, he wasn’t. That was why it hurt so much. It was grief, and that wasn’t a weakness. That was normal. Just unexpected.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I had a bit of a turn there." He got a sympathetic smile for his little false admission.

"I know what you mean. My colleagues..." he relished the word "...say you work too hard, staying up all night to catch up with the paperwork and that. Perhaps you should go home earlier, get some more sleep?"

Lestrade chuckled, reminded of another man who had made him promise to do exactly that. It didn't matter though, seeing as that particular man had since broken the most important of his own promises. He sighed. "If only I could. Nice to know you're concerned about me though. Anyway, Anderson should be done by now. Shall we get back?"

"Sure!" The lad's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. It would have been endearing, but he was in his late twenties, and instead it made him look like a startled rabbit.

"Right." He stood from the ledge he was sitting on, and sacrificed the cool, calming air outside for the sticky ait putrid with the smell of death that lingered inside the house. He knew he'd have to face the scene again eventually. Mycroft's empty blue eyes staring blindly at the ceiling, his limbs twisted and stiff, his last laugh etched upon his face. Worst of all, the deep, dark hole where there should be flawless white skin. He'd already seen one too many of those, and he knew Mycroft had still born the scar of the first.

_'Come to the Diogenes, I have something I need to ask you. Mycroft.' The text had come through while he was standing in the rain on a pavement in London, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere else but here. He had wondered, briefly, if Mycroft was psychic._

_'I'm on a case!' He'd replied, reluctantly._

_'Make time. Dead bodies rarely become deader. Come during your Lunch break. Mycroft.'_

_And he had, willingly. He always did. They had chatted about seemingly trivial things for nearly half an hour. Lestrade didn't even remember what Mycroft had wanted to ask him, but it didn't really matter. They had had a good chat, and it was too soon that Lestrade checked his watch and discovered that he really should be back at work. He was notoriously bad at loosing track of time when spending it with Mycroft, and that wristwatch had been a blessing and a curse over the last year._

  _And so that had prepared to make their goodbyes, when the breaking of glass had disturbed them. A bullet smashed into the wall behind their heads. Lestrade had felt the breeze as it skimmed past. Mycroft had grabbed him and rolled him under the table within seconds, drawing a gun seemingly from mid-air and firing two quick blasts from it. The intruder had crumpled making his way through the window, and his body lay leaking blood across the shards, pierced by the sharp edges._

_Mycroft's arm had been tight around him, and he was so close he could feel not one, but two pulses, both racing with adrenalin. It had been a long time before Mycroft had dared to let go and stand up carefully, keeping his eyes wide open. He moved carefully along the wall towards the door, motioning to Greg to stay put._

_He hadn't left it long enough. The second bullet came ripping through, smashing through Mycroft's shoulder, even as he dodged out of the path of the first. Without a second thought, Greg had stood in one fluid movement, grabbing the gun from where it lay uselessly, dropped by Mycroft as he fell. The remaining four shots were emptied into the body of the second assassin with such a terrifying speed and accuracy that he surprised himself._

_Only then had he turned and knelt by Mycroft's side. The bullet had gone straight through, lodging in the wall at the top of a long streak of blood where he had slipped down the wall. His eyes were open, but only just, and his head lolled sideways onto his mutilated shoulder. Lestrade gasped. The bone was clearly visible, shattered and piercing the torn muscle surrounding it, the whole wound spattered with blood and dripping. Even remembering it made him feel sick. And in the centre, a single round, black hole where there should have been flawless white skin._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters are suddenly really over-complicated. Holmes' tend to do that. It must be some kind of skill.

Lestrade stared at the piece of paper in front of him. It was blank. Why was it blank? It shouldn't be blank. It should be full of facts that would lead him to the murderer. But there weren't any facts, only a lack of them. Well, it was a place to start. He carefully picked up his pen and slowly, carefully began to write.

  * Victim has been stabbed once in the chest, a wound that would cause instant death
  * The wound was inflicted post-mortem with a commonly found serrated blade such as a kitchen knife. Why?
  * Victim was healthy in every other aspect of life. No possible medical issues, not cardiac arrest, no toxins detected as yet, testing still underway. Cause of death?
  * No sign of a murder weapon or the knife that caused the wound. Not suicide then; the weapon would be nearby, there being no chance of disposal.
  * Unlikely to be a slow-working poison - victim seemed in no pain (last expression laughing)
  * No sign of a forced entry. Victim allowed murderer access? Did they know each other?
  * Nobody entered or left the house between the time he was last seen alive and the body was found. Confirmed by CCTV tapes. How did they get in?



Lestrade stared at what he'd written. It was utter madness. It couldn't possibly be a suicide, and yet there were no signs that a murder was committed, except the body. It was a frustrating paradox. What on earth was going on?

He had little less than a second to try and work through the facts, or lack of them, before sally arrived.

"Sir, Anderson needs your permission to get some tests done. Can you sign this please?"

"Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not. He said that by tomorrow the results would be invalid."

"Oh for goodness sake, how am I supposed to solve this bloody murder if I can't get a moment's peace? Look, fine, give them here."

It was going to be a long night.

***

It was well past midnight by the time Lestrade finally made it home, cold, tired and vexed. All he had wanted was a little time on his own to try and work through things, sort things out in his mind. Instead, nobody had given him a moment’s peace. Every time he had begun to settle into his pattern of work, something new had cropped up which was always demanding his immediate attention. He was not in the frame of mind to notice their concern for what it was; a caring sort of protection, a way of ensuring that he did not get too bogged down in his work. Though his colleagues knew nothing of his connection Mycroft, they did know that something was affecting him badly, and none wanted to leave him alone. Unaware of their actions, he had craved the solitude they denied him, and had eventually given in and gone back to his flat, where he could at least find some peace and quiet.

He dropped his coat roughly on a hook and locked the door behind him, not bothering with the lights. He’d be going straight to bed anyway, and every spare penny he saved was a blessing nowadays. He shivered as he wandered through the living room, and wondered idly if he would be able to afford to switch the heating on tonight. The answer was returned in the negative immediately by his treacherous conscience. He’d have to make do with another blanket and hope that it took the edge of the cruel winter chill enough for him to at least sleep a little. The rest of his exhaustion could be fought off with coffee and he’d had plenty of experience in doing exactly that.

“Gregory, what did we agree?” The voice from the darkness made him jump so much he almost had a heart attack. Cursing the thick curtains blocking out the light of the moon he thumped his fist against the wall, fumbling desperately for the light. “I thought we agreed on rules number one and two; two square meals a day and at least six hours of sleep, both of which you have neglected to do.” The sudden dim light revealed Mycroft wearing a pleasantly friendly expression, complete with characteristic umbrella and million pound suit, shining in the middle of the room like a coin in a gutter.

Lestrade, not normally short on words, could think of only one things to say. “Yeah well, guess we’re both guilty of that one. Breaking Rules. You broke rule three; don’t get yourself killed.”

“Technically I did not break my promise, although admittedly you may have believed it for a time.”

“I thought you were dead! Good god, if this is what one day does to me, I think I’m beginning to understand why John gets so depressed.”

“Got so depressed. Past tense.” Lestrade didn’t miss the relieved smile reserved for the younger brother that Mycroft cared about much more than he willingly let on.

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten about that. You Holmes brothers must be Gods, resurrecting yourselves all the time.”

“I appreciate the comparison, though both solutions were depressingly mundane.”

“Well I missed both. Care to explain?”

“It is late, Gregory. You should be sleeping if you have work tomorrow.”

“I can miss one day. They all think there’s something wrong with me anyway, so I’ll get away with it. I think, right now, that explanations are more important.” He was rewarded with a wide smile that was, for once, completely genuine.

“I couldn’t agree more.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft being manipulative, and Lestrade being to tired to care.

It had been hours. Already tired and dilapidated, Lestrade noticed that it was so late that it had become early, and it was only now, as Mycroft gave him a worried glance, that he realised quite how awful he must look.  He was so ordinary in comparison to Mycroft’s extraordinary _everything;_ Brain, looks, abilities. He didn’t realise that Mycroft would have disagreed wholeheartedly, especially on the first count. Mycroft was of the opinion that Gregory was one of the aesthetically pleasing men he had ever met. Because of course, he wouldn’t just say that he found Lestrade attractive.

It was that, and the realisation that Mycroft had just asked him an amiable question that made him realise that he had completely blanked the last few minutes of conversation and hadn't a clue how to answer.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. I'm just so tired... and you've sprung a bit of a surprise on me, too. Not that that's a bad thing. Probably the best thing that's bloody happened to me for a long time, actually, but still." He winced as he ran through the babbling speech of an idiot through his head. Why had he said that? It was the truth, and the honest truth, but that did _not_ make it the right thing to say. Damn. Idiot.

Mycroft was a little embarrassed too, though his was entirely self-contained. How was it that such a small amount of speech could dumbfound him so? They'd been doing so well, getting on normally, and then things had got so depressingly _human_. Gregory had taken the explanation well. Even better, he'd not blamed him, but said that he'd preferred this trauma than the real thing. Ah, but that was the point, rather, wasn't it? He suppressed a smile, something he was much practiced at. Gregory was clearly distressed by the whole incident. This was, surprisingly, rather endearing and more than a little flattering. Mycroft had never expected anyone to react so violently to his 'death'. It had been gratifying, certainly, to know that he meant so much to his friend. Although he had subconsciously realised, as he followed that particular train of thought, that he was referring to his Gregory as a friend, when really he was his best friend. His only friend at all, in actual fact, had become the person he cared about most in the world. How strange that Gregory seemed to feel the same, at least in part, as this latest display had just indicated.

Satisfying. A sort of warmth that seemed to make his world a little... not brighter, exactly. For once, Mycroft was at a loss for words. It was not something that happened often. He made a mental note to write the date in his diary and rectify the situation as soon as possible. Nothing a little background research couldn't solve, he was sure.

Now Gregory looked, for want of a better word, destroyed. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Gregory had always been, in his eyes, a pillar of strength, albeit a crudely formed one. Not physically, not in the least; he was one of the fittest people Mycroft knew, but in personality. It made him an even more intriguing enigma. Mycroft would easily admit that he had been fascinated in the detective since their very first meeting, though Gregory would never have thought, never mind been audacious enough, to ask him.

The man had stubbornly refused to be beaten down by Mycroft's well-oiled treatment of cold stares and subtly demoralising remarks, a trait that he found intriguing. He had been glad for a chance to talk with him again some months later, whatever the circumstance. He hadn't been aware, at the time, what Sherlock's true situation had been. Though he had his doubts, even then. Gregory had offered some welcome respite from his turbulent brain activity.

Their meetings since then had been more than Mycroft could ever wish for, though had never allowed himself to do something as common as dream before he met Gregory. He was a plotter and a former of plans. Now he found himself dreaming all the time. One other note to add to the growing list of things that had been changed by the appearance of this strange man in his life. Yet despite the conundrum in which he now found himself inexplicably entwined, Mycroft would not pass up on the chance to relive this past year, not for the world. It had been the best year of his life, especially finding that his brother was not, in fact, dead, and that he was most definitely human. Mycroft smiled to remember the admissions of his brother during his lowest points. How John would react when he discovered them would be entertaining to observe. The best thing about the past year however, was Gregory.

There had been a long pause while Gregory wondered if he had said too much. He could see that Mycroft's brain was working double-speed behind those calm, blue eyes. The smile that graced his features, was however, was an instant and completely genuine reaction.

"Gregory, you should not apologise. I have kept you up late, much later than I should have."

"Hypocrite. You were telling me before I should be sleeping more!"

"Ah, yes. Well, we can both allow little holes in the agreement if both parties are involved, can we not?" Lestrade chuckled, wondering if Mycroft had understood, or even realised, the unintentional innuendo. Imagine, Mycroft saying that they could cheat if they _stayed up late together_. And it was universal language what that meant. Lestrade wasn't aware that Mycroft never did _anything_ unintentional. The edges of his lips were still resolutely curved upwards.

"Well done Mycroft. Good joke."

"Thank you. I do try."

And suddenly, there was nothing else to say. It would have been awkward, except that there was too little energy left in Lestrade to notice it. Mycroft's mind was otherwise, very pleasingly, engaged. He pulled himself back from the mental image reluctantly to fill the growing gap in conversation.

He wasn't aware of his complete feeling of relaxation. This flat was the first place he had felt really comfortable in for far too long, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it was the occupant, rather than the interior, that was affecting him.

"Well, Gregory. I must insist that you retire before you fall asleep right where you are sitting, because that would be rather cumbersome for all parties involved."

"Oh, yeah, course. Sorry Mycroft. I'll go." He stood slowly, using the sofa arm to support his tired frame.

"Please, don’t let me make you feel like you are unwelcome in your own home. It is, after all, my fault for keeping you up for so long." Lestrade blinked. It was a normal sentence, but from the mouth of the man who had spoken it sounded so unnatural that it was unusual. Something about the tone of voice had changed. He sounded apologetic, ashamed of himself.

"No, no, it's fine. But don't you have somewhere to be?"

Mycroft's expression was suddenly blank again, and he blinked once, twice. He was back to his careful, guarded self. "Ah. Well. You see, with the whole affair of this fake suicide being rather rushed, there was no time to arrange anywhere for me to stay. I'm rather afraid I shall be sleeping in my car tonight, if I get any sleep at all."

Lestrade wasn't awake enough to realise that there was no possible way Mycroft would ever not be able to get himself a hotel room somewhere in the vast expanse of city that was his empire.

“Oh. Oh, well, I’ve got a spare room, if you want it?”

“Gregory, I have already trespassed upon your hospitality too much. No, but thank you for the offer.”

“Mycroft, I’m not letting you out. It’s bloody cold out there, for a start. I’d feel guilty letting a mate get on like that, so I’m certainly not letting you. Come on, it’s got fresh sheets and everything. No arguing. I don’t mind you staying, so long as you don’t snore.” Was he more than a ‘mate’, a friend?  What was he then? Or was he less?

“Gregory, I really can’t...” He was interrupted by a stubborn detective giving the most exasperated sigh he’d ever heard.

“For God’s sake Mycroft, stop being so bloody posh all the time, and accept a little generosity, for once in your life! I have a room, you need somewhere to sleep, and I don’t mind you staying. That’s it, ok? No arguing. Come on.” He’d grabbed a not-very-convincingly protesting Holmes by his shirt cuff, and dragged him partway along the corridor that separated his flat into two. He dropped his arm by the second door on the right. “This is your room.” He opened the door. “Make yourself at home. I’m directly opposite. You need anything, get over your massive ego and ask for it. Now sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And his own bedroom door closed behind him, leaving a bemused Mycroft standing in the corridor. Lestrade was officially the only man ever to have touched him and not received violent retaliation. He pondered this for a minute, and then decided, begrudgingly, that it was because he trusted the man, a stupid a notion that it was. He assumed that the feeling that had come with it was natural for that sort of thing. The little bolt of electricity as Lestrade’s deep, liquid, brown eyes hat met his blue ones meant more than a little to Mycroft, though he assured himself that it shouldn’t. He assumed it was normal, though wondered how people managed to control their reactions to it. He had wanted to... well, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Or he wouldn’t admit it. Either way.

Turning away and stepping through the door of the spare room, he inhaled deeply and smiled. The room smelled clean and fresh, but best of all, there was an underlying current of Lestrade’s aftershave that he could smell, and it was delightful. He had no doubt that he would sleep well, surrounded by so many of the things that he wished he could see more often. Unfortunately, you cannot covet what is not yours. Unfortunate, because he still seemed to covet Lestrade, who would never be his.

Mycroft sat back on the bed and wondered at his internal fire at the unsaid statement. It was odd how something so trivial could have such a startling effect on him. He was despondent to the very core to think of it, and yet he couldn’t understand why. How curious, he thought.

On the other side of the hallway, behind his door, Lestrade was squeezing his eyes tight shut and listening intently until he heard the door of the spare room closing gently. That meant there were two panels of solid wood between him and Mycroft. Only then did he allow himself to breathe, and concentrate on the blinding flash that had seemingly passed up his arm as he’d grabbed Mycroft’s, only seconds before. What the hell had that been? Almost like a camera flash, but blue, like a little supernova in his head. Mycroft hadn’t seemed to notice it, thank god. Whatever it was, he was quite happy to keep it a little secret. Not that it hadn’t felt good, not at all! It had been fantastic, just terrifying. And maybe a little, but only a very little, satisfying? A revelation, a moment of triumph.

He had stood and was crossing the room before the thought hit him; is this love?

It nearly knocked him over to think it. He grabbed hold of the bedpost and gripped it tightly, his knuckles turning white.

No.

Just... no. _No_. Love didn’t happen like that. He had thought it did, once, when he was much younger. A long time ago, now, before he really knew what it was. Of course, now he knew differently. ‘Love’ wasn’t all roses and sparkles, not by a long way. It didn’t rip your soul apart either, like melodramatics claimed, but it certainly made life much harder. What he’d experienced before, with his wife, had been different. He had cared for her, but in a practical way. It was only now he doubted that he had ever been in ‘love’ at all.

 _This_ was new. It made him feel strange, but in a good way. No, it wasn’t love. There was probably no such thing. Mycroft was, however, his best friend, and if only things could stay that way, he would be happy for as long as they did.

Still, that one touch... to be able to do that again, even just the once. It would make everything seem worth it to feel that ecstatic lightning bolt of pure whatever it was running through his body, coursing through his veins, to be over in a flash. Worth it, definitely. What he wouldn’t give for that chance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Somehow, seeing things in the light of day makes everything a lot clearer.

Lestrade woke to the sound of an incessant sharp bleeping, the little electronic alarm by his bedside loudly and vindictively proclaiming that it was time to get up. The frustration the noise caused was only added to by the knowledge that it had been he who set it, however many years ago that had been. Quite a few actually, more than he cared to think about. His hand reacted independently to his brain, a reflex trained into him by over thirty years in the met. The thing had long been silenced by the time he managed to get up enough energy to haul himself up to sit on the edge of his bed. He rubbed a coarse-skinned hand across his face, feeling the familiar age-roughened contours of his forehead and the rough overnight stubble on his chin.

Unwillingly he pushed his feet out across the cool wooden floor, the startling cold touch enough to hurry him into the warm shower, and suddenly the morning rush began. The routine was practiced, refined, allowing the maximum amount of efficiency in the minimum amount of time. Every morning it took him exactly the same amount of time to get ready and out of the door, meaning he knew exactly how late he could set his alarm to get the longest sleeping time possible. He was used to having to work late, well into the night, and every second of sleep he could get would have to keep him going through the day.

He could do it without thinking now, go through the motions on automatic, allowing his brain time to shake itself slowly awake. This particular process took a variable amount of time, generally depending on the hours of sleep he'd managed to salvage. The longer he slept, the less time he needed to get the neurons fizzing again. However, last night he had slept for a sum total of two hours.

This morning, he was showered, washed, dressed and making himself his morning coffee by the time actual thoughts began to occur.

***

Mycroft had also had very little sleep. The tinny buzzing of Lestrade's alarm did not wake him, as his sleep had already been terminated, but he did pause in the process of doing up his waistcoat buttons, his fingers hovering over the third finely-made little navy masterpiece. He was not a man for half-measures. He cocked his head sideways and listened.

First, a heavy thump and the abrupt cease of the alarm ringing. He checked his pocket watch; the little gold-gilded face read two minutes past six am.

Second, the quiet rustle of bed sheets followed by the soft thump of bare feet on wood, undoubtedly as the detective worked his way across his bedroom. The creak of a door opening, the change in pitch as the feet moved from wood to tile, and the muffled thud of the door being shut again accompanied the rattle of the lock being turned. He was in the bathroom then. The unmistakable flicking of a switch, and the rushing of water indicating the running of a shower. The unwanted picture of Lestrade showering crept into his mind before he could stop it, and he attempted to force it back by staring unblinkingly at the watch he held in his palm; three minutes past six.

The quick patter of water falling stopped, replaced within seconds by the material shuffle of a towel moving, then the droning of an electric toothbrush and the quick splash of water from a tap. The electric razor after that, and he can imagine the blades whirring and hissing against the skin of the man's neck and chin. Mycroft wondered at the vividness of his imagination. He had his back to the noise, and yet he could form a perfect picture in front of his eyes of what Lestrade would be doing, even if the picture made him blush, unwillingly. Eleven minutes past.

Then the movement of the door and the lock again in reverse, followed by the banging of wardrobe doors and drawers of chests, and the accompanying rustle of material. He even thought he heard a yawn, the unimaginably erotic picture of Lestrade stretching his jaws presenting itself easily in front of his eyes. Good god. He felt the flush wash back up from his neck to his cheeks, heat once again rising to his otherwise delicately pale skin. He checked his watch again, quickly, calming himself. He hadn't had this little self-control since he was very young, a very, very long time ago. Far too long ago, actually. Thirteen minutes past.

Then the quick footsteps in the hallway, the sudden blaring of the music on the radio, Lestrade’s hum occasionally heard above the music, occasionally obscured by it. The hiss of the coffee machine and hot water boiling can just be heard above the band, the gentle aroma of coffee sneaking in under the door of the spare room and wafting up to Mycroft’s appreciate nose. It smells good, and he realises that he didn’t actually eat last night. He knows that neither of them did. He wonders why he can’t hear Lestrade preparing some kind of food. Fifteen minutes past six.

Then suddenly, the crash of a cup hitting the floor, accompanied by a hiss of pain and a string of loud, angry French swearwords. Sixteen minutes past. Mycroft smiled. Well, it had been a long night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I've got a fair amount of this written already, so updates should be pretty regular, providing I don't get any random flashes of inspiration (again). Any comments are appreciated :)


End file.
